


Fearless

by EmeraldSage



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Revolution, Enjoy!, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Magic, Parental England, Revolutionary War, Some angst, UK Fam, Who is Seriously Underestimating his little Sunshine Child, badass alfred, but not?, happy fourth of july
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 19:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19470268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: He'd hid in his trees and behind the sheltering walls of his General’s orders.  He'd watched brave men – and the sneaky women who found their way into his numbers – pitch themselves across a battlefield.  Small, untrained, barely passing for competent and yet they drove themselves into a fury against the British.  They threw themselves into battle for what they believed in, damn the consequences, because this was bigger than just the status quo.  It was something they believed in.He was something they believed in.How could he throw that away? (He couldn't)And that made him fearless.





	Fearless

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for my attempts at Alistair's accent - it's stressed at different places to indicate how thick it is or how much emphasis he's putting on it, rather than just random!

**“ _You used to make my heart pound_**

**_Just the thought of you_ **

**_You used to be a cold wind_ **

**_Always blowing through_ ”**

Could he really do this?

He rested against the tree bough, high enough that he couldn’t be seen but low enough that he didn’t risk falling due to the slimness or fragility of the branch. Beneath him, British troops went about their business, setting their usual camp routines, checking the patrol routes and supplies. Tents were set up in the near distance – close enough that Alfred’s keen eyesight could make out the detailing on each of the standard military-issue equipment. His mind was as alert as it could get, but even so, his thoughts wandered. They plagued him in an endless stream of questions. But it all came back to one. Just one.

_Can I really do this_?

It was a question that plagued him for months, leading into years; silently contemplating if he really had the strength to do it. To move against his family. To stand against the battlefield from them; to know they’d bring down every ounce of ancient power they wielded to take him back.

To watch his family kill his people.

Because they _would_. And more to the point, they already _had_. Perhaps not personally, not yet. But Alfred had fled from his father’s home on his land, and the might of the British military had been mobilized overland to bring him home and take back the _colony_.

To take back _Crown property_ , and damn the price it would demand. Damn the innocent lives that suffered for their quest to drag him back. Damn their loyalists who got caught in crossfire, who lost their homes and livelihood and family but still supported that red – _red-red-blood red army like the tracks they trailed and blazed up and down his land, leaving nothing but scars behind_ –army storming his land. Damn the lifeblood that pulsed through his veins and bled every time they cut into him.

Take him and _damn_ him, because he wouldn’t live – _couldn’t_ live – subservient and submissive to another nation (even his _father, oh god it was his father, it was his **father doing this to him** ) _again or it would pull him apart at the seams.

It already was.

But some fighter he was! He hid in his trees and behind the sheltering walls of his General’s orders. He watched brave men – and the sneaky women who found their way into his numbers – pitch themselves across a battlefield. Small, untrained, barely passing for competent and yet they drove themselves into a fury against the British. They threw themselves into battle for what they believed in, damn the consequences, because this was _bigger_ than just the status quo. It was something they believed in.

_He_ was something they believed in.

How could he ever throw that away?

How could they _ask_ him to?

**“ _But I won't take it anymore_**

**_That's not what I came here for_ ”**

He supposed, as he watched the British laugh and jeer and gloat, the answer was easy enough.

He wouldn’t.

**“ _I'm stuck in your head, I'm back from the dead_**

**_Got you running scared, I'm fearless_ **

**_I'm calling you out, I'm taking you down_ **

**_Don't you come around, I'm fearless_ **

**_I’m fearless_ ”**

Decision made, and it was like the whole world had shifted. The wind vibrated as it twisted around him, as if it could sense his intentions. The skies darkened even as the sun’s rays gleamed with a sudden influx of power.

The troops below him, ever confident, noticed none of it.

He shifted lightly, into a crouching position. He was perched delicately, the moves coming back to him seamlessly after centuries of practice. He shifted his quiver from the branch above him onto his back, and settled his mother’s weapon of choice onto his shoulder.

He breathed in soundlessly, notched an arrow in the bow his mother had taught him to make, and exhaled.

The arrow flew, aim true. And around him, the wind _roared_.

**“ _I've got the upper hand now, and you're losing ground_**

**_You never had to fight back, never lost a round_ **

**_You see the gloves are coming off, tell me when you've had enough_ ”**

The first warning they received – the very first whisper that only vaguely hinted that something in the war had _shifted_ – came with the wind. The seas had been calm all day, and all the rebels hidden amongst the merchants at port had been on edge. The sailors had watched the sky with a wariness born from years of experience. The animals had seemingly vanished, and the tide had stilled.

But even Arthur – for all his connection to the sea, and its adoration of him – had not the slightest inkling of what was to come.

To him, and his already-irate brothers, it was simply another calm day in port. The rebels were tense, yes, but that was likely the occupation wearing down on their spirit. The sea was still, which was unusual but not terribly odd enough for them to be concerned. The ocean hugging Alfred’s shores adored him, as Alfred did, so Arthur had never once suspected deception.

(He ‘d never suspected Alfred’s either, and he didn’t like to think of why it was, when he reflected upon it later, he’d been so bleakly unsurprised this time)

He’d gone farther down the dock while his brothers awaited him impatiently. He chatted politely with the soldiers who were guarding the ships and their cargo – flexing their weapons threateningly in the case of the multiple rebellious faces they could see scattered on shipboard – while he hid a smirk at Alistair’s twitching brow.

He turned to his brothers, a brow hiked as if to inquire at his ire, when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned.

That was the only thing that saved him.

Turned as he was, he wasn’t a flat surface that the gale could blow away.

And _God_ , there was a gale.

It came from the land, the gale so furious and wrathful that its howl nearly shredded the ears of all its listeners. So mournful and vengeful was it that Arthur could hear snatches of pained moans and pleas that sprung from the men around him. They were only audible for only a split second before the wind snatched them away, rearing back with its treasures with the fury of a possessive dragon guarding its hoard. And then it was upon them once again.

Arthur had been amongst the more fortunate of his men on the deck, for he’d been able to launch himself onto the deck, digging his fingers into worn planks to ground him. His brothers had staggered – nearly toppling over the edge of the dock together – before one of them, indiscernible to Arthur in the blinding gale, caught a grip on the others and began to drag them all towards shore.

Many of his men hadn’t been nearly as fortunate. Half of them were missing from the deck, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see a red coat bobbing in the open waters.

But he didn’t have time to mourn, to grow his fury at the loss of his people. For it was when the winds were at their fiercest, Arthur and his men distracted as they clung to the deck or to whatever they could to keep themselves on the ground, that the sea rose up and _struck_.

He barely had enough time to register the movement of the ocean, and breath to call out a warning before it was on them, and the screams of the port folk were drowned out with the sea’s fury.

The cries of surprise were swallowed up by the hungry gale, and the shrieks of terror cut off roughly with the roar of the sea. Arthur, like most of those who’d been stuck on the dock, had been washed off the wooden surface. Luckily, he’d managed to snag hold of one of the posts supporting the wooden dock before he’d been swallowed down by the sea. He was well aware that his men hadn’t been so lucky, even if his brothers had made it onto solid shore. Arthur clung to the post with an iron grip, fully aware that he was just above the water level, and his fortune could fail him at any time. He let magic thread out, green and searing and desperate, wrapping like rope dipped in acid, tightly around the post’s creases.

A splash of sea water grazed the magic-wrapped pole, the snap of familiar magic brushing against his own, and suddenly the waters were still. The wind faded. His ears were still ringing, but one thing was clear.

The assault had ended.

And as Arthur clung to the pole with a death grip, catching the breath that the vicious gale had denied him, the realization of the calamity washed over him.

He hauled himself up to the deck level, pulling himself over until lay, sprawled against the washed-out planks. The breeze, gentle and soft in comparison to the aggressive gale that had wreaked havoc amongst the port, brushed against him warmly, and something nagged at him. Something altogether too _familiar_ ….

His musings were cut off when the breeze brought with it some of the pained whimpers and groans of his men and the other victims of the sudden assault. He pushed himself to his elbows, surprised, despite himself, to feel exhaustion tugging at his bones, and surveyed the scene around him.

Those on shipboard, he realized, had fared the best of all the port victims. They’d clung to the sides of the ship – the masts, the planks, the merchandise, _anything they could reach_ – when the wave had swept over them and, for most of them, they’d held on long enough for the waves to retreat. The poor bastard in the crow’s nest on one of the ships, who’d been watching them all wearily as befitting the rebel they knew him to be, had wedged himself within the confines of the small shelter and outlasted the vicious gale. Loyalties pushed to the side in the wake of disaster, he sprung up the moment the winds cleared and began to call out the survivors his keen eye could see. Including, Arthur noted, a handful of swimmers in the water who were desperately trying to get back to shore.

There were a surprising number of swimmers, he realized with a thrum of surprised delight, too many for the level of casualties he’d expected. When they reached the shore, half the port paused from clearing the destruction and cheered.

The news only reached them after they’d survived the sudden outwash of devastation. The camp that they were supposed to be re-supplying from the merchant ships? It had been completely demolished. What supplies hadn’t been ransacked had been obliterated. Fire had roared and swept across the camp, the wind egging it on as it leapt across tents and barricades and even rivers that were crossed in one of many desperate attempts to escape

Arrows had rained down on them, survivors had murmured, utterly traumatized and shaking. Arrows that brought with them a taste of magic and the detonation force of a hurricane compressed into miniature. One survivor had watched a single arrow detonate a barrel of gunpowder and clear out half the camp. He’d only avoided injury because he’d ducked behind the sheltering oak he’d been using for a vantage point during gate duty. And because he’d had the terrifying feeling that the rebel who’d targeted them had been watching him nearby the whole time.

(The wind carried the whispers of his forever-fear to the spritely young nation who’d wielded the gale and wove the earth around him. He laughed, solstice bright and summer sweet, but with the bitterness of a nation thrice his age. He’d spared the soldier who looked _too-young too-innocent_ , but he’d scarred him for life. It was the only tradeoff he could afford to make, in a game that claimed lives like a miser claimed coins. Mercy was a commodity he could ill afford when it led to nothing but burning buildings and blood staining his streets.)

The camp had been destroyed, and it had driven home to Arthur the reality of what _had_ happened at the docks that day. Few lives had been lost – a precious few – but supplies? Ships had been devastated, British merchants’ wares lost at sea, while the military supplies they’d been holding had simply sunk into the harbor and vanished beyond their reach. It would take them precious time to regain the momentum they’d lost here that afternoon.

Arthur had an awful feeling that had been the plan all along.

And a worse one yet: that it whatever _this_ was… it was only just beginning.

**“ _Ready for a showdown, and we're face to face_**

**_I think I'll rearrange it, put you in your place_ **

**_You don't get the best of me, check it, you're afraid of me_ ”**

They started as whispers. Dark and terrifying; like a ghost story everyone knew but refused to speak of. The wind caught every word that whispered through trembling lips, gestures made with shaking hands and the acrid scent of fear permeating the air. It circled around the woods at first. It lingered over the campfires; between bent heads and whispered warnings. It danced through the air, shivered down the spines of red-vested men. It rustled amongst the tree leaves, which dripped down autumn-worn boughs atop shivering, paranoid troops. It permeated down the hierarchy – chilling the blood everyone affected. From the Generals, who shivered at the threat only when they knew they were alone, down to the drummers and errand boys, who’s fright was a visible, palpable thing. It was a heavy, weighted knowledge that rested on their shoulders.

The knowledge from those whispers that someone… _something_ …was hunting them.

And if it wasn’t enough that the whispers haunted them, there were the songs.

Oh, the _songs_.

They sounded like the most delightful things; like the soft murmurs of a mother’s lullaby, gentled with the sweetest kiss. That soft, lilting voice that sung to them brought up memories of spring flowers and honeyed warmth amidst the autumnal chill. It was enchanting. It was spellbinding.

Which, of course, explained why they’d all been so dazed by the song that none of them noticed the blue sky clouding over, covered in a thick pall of gray. The overcast sky that rumbled and tumbled and flashed even as they stood in their camp, so enchanted. Words drenched in magic spun around them, the weave a snare of the mind so masterfully woven even the strongest willed soldiers had little resistance.

And then, of course, the arrows struck.

Very few lives were lost in the chaos that resulted from an attack, but in the wake of it, they were ever more disassembled. Troops scattered - traumatized, injured, and the very few dead - with their supplies destroyed, and their horses vanished, it was something out of every general’s nightmare. The morale dropped and terror shot up, fear permeating every British camp that dared to settle within the colonies. They all knew, eventually, that they would be targets of the mysterious rebel archer - the one with an eagle’s eye, a summer sweet laugh, and a bewitching voice that lulled even the most hardened soldier into a gentle complacency...until the world came apart around them.

Then, one day, a new story began to circle.

It was like a campfire story – a warning and superstition but grounded in something very, _very_ real all at once.

A small squad of soldiers – barely five or so – had been on their way to one of the General’s camps closer to the coast. They’d been making a good pace, but as dusk fell, they heard the rushed clops of a horse and rider approaching from the direction they were heading towards. He’d emerged from the horizon, and for a second it looked as if the rider was draped in a cloak that burned auburn and bronze in the dusk light, as the horse gleamed a burnished wheat-golden. They blinked, the illusion gone, and he was just before them, pulling his horse to a halt.

The hood of the dark cloak slid back, and a kind young face smiled upon them. He was fey and charming and kind, his presence calming. There was a hint of wildness in his eyes, the gleam of teeth in his smile, but stunned at his sudden appearance, they dismissed it as their imagination. And to this day, they couldn’t remember quite what he looked like – only that he looked unlike anyone they’d ever seen.

He called to them, to halt their progress. There was a storm on the horizon, he warned, it had come from the sea – where it had brewed and gorged itself on the rich ocean waters and humid sea winds, becoming heavy and treacherous as nature had intended – and it threatened to crash upon the shore by nightfall. He was heading back towards the town he’d been staying in, though he likely wouldn’t make it before nightfall, before heading down a safer route the following morning. He would be setting up camp a little ways back, if they wanted to join him.

They had been suspicious – and who would blame them? A stranger riding a horse at dusk, asking to share a fire with a small squad of soldiers in these tense times? But the young man had been kind and good-humored about their suspicion, and the captain of the small squad had smelt rain on the wind not far away. So they agreed, turned around, and rode as close as they could to the town before setting up camp as night fell.

The young man was the cheerful sort by nature, it seemed. Even around a meagre meal of camp rations, with the darkened skies flashing threateningly, he’d smiled cheerfully at them, assuring them that any fire on the roads should be accompanied by stories passed around to keep them company at night. Curious enough, even with the skies echoing with a distant thunder, they’d agreed.

And then, the young man began to sing. His voice, they could recall, had been a sweet, lilting thing; warm and honey rich, as he wove about them an age-old lullaby from ancestors long forgotten from their shores. It dimmed the world around them, and they didn’t notice how the sky around them quaked and roared, the wind whistling almost painfully, as debris and rain whipped around, heralding the storm’s arrival. Neither did they notice the young man’s smile turn into a satisfied smirk.

They woke as dawn broke, jolting awake as the spell faded with the night. The storm the young man had warned them of had clearly wreaked havoc through the night – puddles of mud everywhere, the gravel road itself a softened mush – yet, somehow, they had remained untouched. The campfire that had been crackling joyfully all night had burned down to embers that still burned, untouched by the heavy rain or wind that had bellowed throughout the night.

Their supplies and their horses had vanished, not a trace around to be found.

When they finally made their way down to the base camp, after resupplying in the town, they realized that the camp had been hit, not just by a storm, but by their very magical mystery opponent in the woods, and only _hours_ before they’d encountered a very curious young man on the road.

That’s how they realized it wasn’t a band of rebels, or even a small operational group. It was just one person. One very determined, very capable, very magical person. And that, along with the terror stories of the camp assaults, was how every man with a red coat learned to fear the sound of summer sweet laughter and the fresh scent of the wind that bore it like a chilled dagger into their souls.

**“ _I'm stuck in your head, I'm back, back from the dead_**

**_Got you running scared, I'm fearless_ ”**

His men ran around him, even his fury too weak a threat against their fear of the devilry bewitching them. Laughter, summer sweet and solstice bright, danced around them and drove the terror into their hearts. The wind rippled and the very air around them split apart, thundering its fury as laughter mocked them and sent them cowering.

“STAND YOUR GROUND MEN!” Arthur bellowed at the terrified troops as the world came apart in _wind-fire-fury- **fear**_ and another one of Alfred’s enchanted explosive arrows found their mark in their gunpowder supplies. The sonic _boom_ of magic that emanated threw him down to the ground, which vibrated, pulsing, in line with his own heartbeat. His own magic rose through his veins, called out by the chaos whirling around them. His eyes _glowed_ , and he snarled.

Magic thrummed through his veins, calling like to like. Alfred had been careful, _oh_ there was no doubt about that. But Alfred was not even two centuries young and Arthur had lived through millennia. It would take more than his son’s pitiful training to conceal that well of familiar magic from him.

And – _yes_ , _there!_ – there he was, not even a quarter of a mile away. Glowing wells of green gleamed with an acidic viciousness, and he could _see_. Alfred’s familiar summer sweet laugh echoed through the forest for all to hear, but only _he_ could see the dance of blue-white shimmers marking his son’s trail.

His snarl curved into a vicious, victorious smile because _there_ , he _had him_. And he buried that sense of pride, because Alfred was _good – good-so good, when did he become this good_ – but good wasn’t good enough with Arthur on his trail. Because Alfred was still his _son_ and _oh_ he was so damned proud, but Alfred was going to regret it so verily when Arthur _took him back_.

But Arthur had underestimated his cunning child. For all that he accounted for Alfred’s strengths, he had long forgotten: Alfred had existed for centuries before he’d even paid a single thought towards the land that bore his son. England’s son, yes, he was. But he was Native America’s successor first, before the continent had ever been named in any foreign tongue.

And never once did Arthur think that Alfred _wanted_ to be chased as the Empire tore into the forest after his son.

An arrow of pure sound erupted in the ground behind him half-way into the forest, _shoving_ him forwards. It pitched him straight into a leaf covered pit. He tumbled down the edge and rolled straight into the steep slope of the trap. Growling – part in disbelief and part annoyance, because really, _did Alfred think this would hold him for long at all?_ – he pushed himself to his feet, lancing a weave of magic to the top –

Only to be dropped on his ass when another eruption of sound and vibration exploded near the entrance of the pit, sending a wave of his soldiers tumbling down on top of him.

Almost as an afterthought, a handful of arrows whistled through, lodging another net on top of the pit. A wave of his son’s potent earth magic – as old as the continent itself – whirled foliage on top of the netting, effectively resetting the trap with an almost cheerful whistle of wind.

Arthur didn’t bother holding back his snarl as the darkness choked them down and all he could hear was summer sweet laughter echoing in his ears.

**_I'm calling you out, I'm taking you down_ **

**_Don't you come around, I'm fearless, I'm fearless, I'm fearless_ ”**

Their voices echoed in the alley they’d ensconced themselves within, and perhaps, that’s why they didn’t hear it. They didn’t hear the pitter-patter of booted feet coming to a halt nearby, or feel the almost palpable moment of hesitation that came once the owner of said boots realized who was there. They didn’t notice the soft shifting sounds of clothing rustling or catching on the edges of carefully tiled roofs. They didn’t notice anything other than the insistent rumbling of the wind around them - which, in all honesty, should’ve been a sign in and of itself.

“ – gonna be completely screwed if ye don’t _take it seriously_!” a Scottish voice snapped, huffing in frustration as the voice’s owner ran a hand through his hair. “We’ve never seen him like tha’, we have _no experience_ with his ability in magical combat. Fer lord’s sake, Arthur, he’s only been a teenager fer a handful o’ decades – and most of them he’s spent _here_. Away from us.”

“Get to your damned point, Alistair,” an icy voice retorted.

The redheaded Scotsman scowled aggressively, “The _point_ , bràthair,” he growled, “is that you need to _listen_ to your men. They’ve run up against him. They’ve encountered his magic. They’ve seen him fight. Ya don’t have ta _like it_ , but ya have to _listen_. Anythin’ else is just bad strategy.”

“Their reports are confounded,” Arthur retorted furiously, “they don’t even realize what they’re seeing half the time!”

“But if ya look through them,” the elder of the pair implored, “you’ll at least know if it’s _him_ , or some o’ the rebels taking inspiration from his tactics.”

Arthur snorts at that, “As if they can emulate his attacks to that degree,” he said, derisively.

“Not yet,” his brother retorted, “but some of them are getting better at it. _Significantly_ better.”

There’s a significant pause as the brothers exchanged looks, something meaningful and intent churning behind Alistair’s gray eyes, even as Arthur looks him straight on and frowns.

“You don’t think they’re being informed about Alfred’s raids,” Arthur said, shrewdly, eyes narrowed.

Alistair shook his head, “No,” he agrees, “but someone _is_. Someone knows what Alfred’s doing, and they’re helping him. Or do you think the General’s sudden acquisitions of supplies and ammunition came from multiple generous merchants? One sympathizer, maybe – two or three at most,” he added grudgingly, “but the last dozen re-supplies? When we know that Alfred made away with our own supplies?”

“You can’t mean _Washington_ ,” Arthur replied, aghast, “Alfred despises the military hierarchy – he’s always refused to work with anyone above a Captain’s rank. To cooperate with Washington himself -,”

“This is exactly your problem,” his brother finally exploded, “Yer _compromised_ , Albion! _Emotionally compromised!_ Ya refuse to see ‘im as anything but a _child!_ Washington’s not just _a_ general – he’s _America’s General_. Ya’ve already forgotten tha’ he spent almost a _year_ in Philadelphia, going between Congress and Washington’s rag-tag army! Washington’s the one fighting for ‘is freedom! Yer so blind to him that yer even underestimating his nonmagical abilities!”

“I _am **not**_ – ,”

“Haven’t ya been wondering at the sheer volume of information he’s somehow gotten ahold of?” Alistair demands, interrupting the beginnings of an irate tirade, “How does he know what camps have which supplies? When the ships are coming into port? How does the General acquire them only _days_ after they’re stolen? You want to _win_ , Albion – but he’s outwitting you because he already knows where you’re going to be. It’s not a matter of strategy anymore! It’s who’s better informed.”

“Washington’s the only remote threat, what with his information network,” Arthur grumbled, releasing the anger as he waved off the concern, “But all our spies – every single report we’ve got concerning Alfred – they all agree that he’s nowhere near the General.”

“Because they’ve always got the right of it!” Alistair scoffed, in turn. “It’s not like we can see through all of his disguises, bràthair. And even so, that doesn’t stop the _General_ from sending his own informants to keep him up to date.”

“Whatever informants he sends won’t get there and back in time, either way,” his brother retorted, “our plans will go off without a hitch. The last of my spies reported Alfred to be further north, up the coast. My _supposed_ emotionally compromised situation doesn’t matter right now. With all of Washington’s spies cleared from the area, and Alfred nowhere close enough to aid them… the rebels are sitting ducks.”

“Because that’s what you should be worried about,” Alistair scoffed, “Just because Cornwallis is confident in the surprise assault tomorr – OH NO YEH DON’T LADDIE!”

Arthur jolted at his brother’s sudden roar, but his mind kicked straight into gear when he saw glowing strings of magic weave themselves together into a net ball around Alistair’s fingers.

A net which he then threw like he would a javelin at a spot on the roof above him, just within Arthur’s blind spot. A spot that was apparently occupied, given the litany of curses spewed their way in a variety of unfamiliar languages.

In an achingly familiar voice.

It was dark with no sun gleaming off of golden spun tresses, no shine of blue eyes watching them in the dark of the woods. The wind was empty of that familiar summer sweet laughter, and the spark of magic that often accompanied it.

But really, there was no doubting that voice.

“ _Alfred_ ,” he snarled, just as the net made contact with something on the other edge of the roof. There was a thump of something - someone falling off the edge of the roof, and they bolted towards it.

Unfortunately, it was not a wayward colony trapped in the magical netting, only a worn brown boot that had clearly seen better days. Alistair swore, mentally reaming himself out for his poor aim that had literally _just_ missed his nephew.

Arthur, it seemed, didn’t even have the mind to do that much. He’d bolted after the teenage colony, who’d left the boot behind before the net could’ve engulfed him. The trail – which Alfred was normally excellent at covering up – was all too obvious to the two experienced trackers.

The boot that was thrown at them only minutes into their chase was only confirmation of that. Arthur dodged the boot, the wily bastard. It smacked Alistair straight in the face, sending him sprawling.

That alone should’ve told them how badly this chase was going to go.

The accuracy of that shoe might’ve been a one off, but the pinecones, the beam of wood, and the broken lantern that followed them said otherwise.

He would’ve laughed at the disgruntled wet-cat look his brother pulled off with half his hair matted down by once-liquid wax if he’d had the breath to do anything but run. God, who knew his nephew could be so _fast_?!

And then his nephew hit the forest, and the _trees_ started attacking them.

It was only hours later, when they’d thoroughly lost the trail, that Arthur caught his breath, spun around, and demanded, “How did you know he was there?!”

Alistair, still wheezing from their intensive run through town and a mostly-hostile forest, grumbled, “His magic, you numpty.”

Arthur stared at him, “Wot?”

Alistair rolled his eyes, “He was filling the air with a thin layer of his magic, so we wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from the atmosphere,” he explained, thinking of that misty feeling he’d noticed in the air. It had been so fine-tuned and unnoticeable – unmistakable, but easily dismissed as just another muggy day. Little brat. _Brilliant_ little brat, though. “It would’ve worked, too. The only reason I noticed he was there was because he couldn’t control the instinctual flare of aggression in his magic when we were talking about Cornwallis’s surprise attack.”

The instinctual flare that was the only thing that spoke to how _untrained_ Alfred still was with his magic…or at least, the magic he’d learned from _them_. Alfred’s gift for his magic, it seemed, didn’t come from the rigid rules and practices the brothers had adhered to for millennia…rather, it seemed grounded in Alfred’s imagination.

And Alistair knew, even though he’d hardly say it aloud in front of his already incensed brother, that _that_ , above all, spoke to how hard it was going to be to fight a war against the brat.

**“ _You used to make my heart pound, just the thought of you_**

**_But now you're in the background, what you gonna do?_ **

**_Sound off if you hear this, we're feeling fearless, we're feeling fearless_ ”**

He laughed, dancing through the hail of fire, magic dancing around his fingertips and around his ankles. The forest came to life around him, tree branches swaying away from his path to block pursuers. The foliage dipped to cover his tracks, smacking some of the lobsters in the face. His laughter was a bell like chime that chased his pale pursuers, twining through their ears into their blood. He could hear the cries – equal parts fear and fury – as the wind called their voices to him. Their fear a palpable thing, sluicing down his spine and dancing in his veins.

“It’s him! It’s the witch of the woods!

So, that’s what they were calling him now?

He mused on that, amusement replaced with the spike of adrenaline and his eyes narrowed in on the path laid before him, laden with traps he’d made for the soldiers behind him. The wind brought to him the orders of the camp’s leader, a fierce demand for them to _go, get yer arses in gear, and bring that bastard to me!_

His smirk was dark.

_Let them come_ , he thought, eyes dark and gleaming as he tore through his woods. Let them come, while the blood of his people enriched his lands and the voice of freedom was slowly choked from the air. Let them come, their armies blazing trails of burning scars up and down his land, boiling his blood and scarring his skin.

Let them come. Armies and magic and all that stood in his way, let them come.

For his people, he would stand – a wall against them all.

For his people, he was fearless.

**“ _I'm stuck in your head, I'm back from the dead_**

**_Got you running scared, I'm fearless_ **

**_I'm calling you out, I'm taking you down_ **

**_Don't you come around, I'm fearless_ **

**_I’m fearless_ ”**

**Author's Note:**

> This thing has been sitting on my laptop since some time last year, lord only knows how I finished it in time for today. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
